


Not That Kind of Man

by alovelylittlescandal



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Eggsy & Roxy Bromance, Eggsy is a Little Shit, Family, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M, but so is Harry, eventually, merlin is so done with everyone, this is mostly T-rated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alovelylittlescandal/pseuds/alovelylittlescandal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Harry Hart was a very precise kind of asshole, he showed up to his own funeral.</p><p> </p><p>In which Harry is Not Dead, Eggsy meets his sister and begins a campaign worthy of Napoleon, and all that’s well ends in sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic ate my brain. It began its life as a very indulgent fix-it, but since everything I touch turns to angst, we end up with this strange hybrid. 
> 
> All characters belong to their respective creators except for Emma Hart, who belongs to me. 
> 
> “A man loses part of himself, an arm, a leg, and though he has been a fine solider he is never quite the same again; he has lost nothing else visible, but there is a certain softness in the main thereafter, a slowness, a caution.”  
> pg 136, The Killer Angels

There are certain types of books in which a tragic ending is appropriate. 

This is not one of them.

 

***

They buried Harry on a Saturday afternoon, more than two weeks after he had died. Or, to be more entirely accurate, they held a service for an empty white coffin that was supposed to represent Harry’s departed mortal soul. The police still hadn’t released what was left of the church members, due to their “ongoing investigation” into the “cult-driven massacre”. 

Eggsy, sitting up front with the rest of Kingsmen, supposed he was glad that they were burying a symbol. He didn’t want to see what Harry looked like after his skull had been shattered by a .22 caliber bullet. Probably like a watermelon, dropped from great height. He swallowed, almost compulsively. He was too good at metaphors. 

There was one little bouquet of flowers, provided by Roxy, who had popped off to the shop before they left because neither one of them had thought of it before. 

Next to him, she was wearing a sharp black suit, her hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Merlin hadn’t even bothered to change out of his usual cardigan. Eggsy supposed that said enough about Harry’s life—Tesco flowers and a business-as-usual attitude. He had saved the world, and the only people who had turned up were work colleagues. 

Eggsy glanced towards the back of the church and swallowed hard. The place was bringing back memories of his dad’s funeral, when it had been him and his mum in a sea of bare wooden pews. He hadn’t cried for his father. It would be stupid to do it for Harry, and he was pretty sure that Harry had said that gentleman didn’t. Or something. Roxy was dry-eyed, anyway, and he would be damnned if he shed tears before her. 

It was a long service, which Eggsy thought Harry would have liked, except he suspected that beneath the COE posh was a godless heathen. But gentleman probably at least pretended a church affiliation, so Eggsy bowed his head when he thought he had to bow his head. The air was very still inside, and he thought the vicar acted more important for someone who hadn’t even known Harry.

A willowy brunette sat in the pew closest to the coffin. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her face like the salt cliffs of Dover, crumbling every so softly when no one was watching. Eggsy wondered who she was. Ex-wife? Secret mistress? Who dared to grieve for a fallen Kingsman beside his fellow service members?

“That’s his sister,” whispered Roxy.

Eggsy looked at her. “How’d you know that?”

“My dad used to have Harry round for dinner. He let it slip that he had a sister in MI-6. Guess spycraft runs in the family.”

“Emma,” Merlin supplied quietly, as Eggsy craned his head to get a better glance. 

He squinted a little. Yes, there was a pronounced family resemblance. Perhaps years of peerage inbreeding had done the trick. She had a refined face that could be called proud if not exactly beautiful. Her hair was cut in a mannish way, but the black fitted dress was almost exaggeratedly feminine. Eggsy thought she might have been a little older than Harry but it was hard to tell, as Harry had weathered his years extremely well. 

She caught him looking, and gave him a cold stare that needed no translation. Fuck off.

 

It began to rain steadily as they left the church, and by the time they arrived at the gravesite, it was pouring. They squelched their way to the empty, yawning earth, dirt turning to mud beneath their shoes. Eggsy rounded his shoulders, and ducked his head against the downpour. Roxy’s heels were sinking into the good English earth, but she soldiered on, umbrella held up like a beacon. Merlin appeared entirely unperturbed by the sudden change in fortunes, judging by the scowl on his face. The rest of the Round Table had fucked off to god knows where.

They each threw in their clod of earth, and stood looking at one another with dirt clinging to their hands, a little bereft of words. Emma Hart’s face was waxy and bloodless beneath her umbrella.

The vicar closed his bible, looking appropriately solemn. When no one went to him for words of comfort, he blinked once, apparently baffled, then drifted towards the tree line in the distance. 

“How is MI-6 these days?” Merlin asked her.

Emma gave him a very cold stare. In a liquid, posh voice, she said, “You want to have shop talk at my brother’s funeral.”

“Harry would have done it.”

“Harry,” she said, and her head dipped a little, voice beading into a sob, “Was an officer and a gentleman. And an absolute prat, to boot.”

“As his next of kin,” Merlin began, holding out his hand. 

Harry’s gold chain dangled from his fingers, knicked by Eggsy, from the locked top drawer of his desk. 

Emma looked at the Kingsman emblem with something like revulsion. “I don’t want it.”

“Harry thought you might say that. I also have strict instructions that if you refuse the chain, you must take his dog.”

She sucked her bottom lip so far inside her mouth that her entire lower face contoured in dismay.

“A very poor trade,” she said. “I’ll take the chain, then.”

She slipped the medallion in her slim black purse, before glancing at Eggsy. “You must be one of my brother’s strays.”

Eggsy remembered how Harry had revered dogs and decided that there were worse comparisons to be made. 

“He brought me into the service,” said Eggsy.

“And I suppose you’re sorry for my loss?” she said, wearing a faintly mocking smile.

“It’s everyone’s loss.”

“No, Mr. Unwin, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Emma. She turned to Merlin. “I’ll make the arrangements for Harry’s estate.”

Merlin bowed slightly. “I would expect nothing less.”

Emma gave Roxy a cursory nod, before turning on her heel and marching away from them.

“Pub?” asked Eggsy, watching her leave. 

“Pub,” sighed Roxy, rubbing her shoulder with her free hand. “At least let’s get out of the bloody rain.”

 

And had Harry been actually dead, that might have been the end of it.  
However….

 

Emma Hart walked quickly along the Marylebone High Street, intent on making it home before she fell apart completely. She let herself into her flat and took the narrow stairs two at a time, nearly at a run. She paused on the landing before the kitchen, noticing something peculiar about the quality of the darkness. 

“The service was COE,” said Emma carelessly as she removed her coat, as quietly as she could. Was she imagining the sound of breathing? She threw the peacoat over a chair, waiting for a muffled complaint. “Arranged no doubt by your lackeys. Lovely and boring.”

Would she turn the light on and be completely alone, as she had for the past two weeks? Was it time now, to give up her idiotic belief? 

“Mm,” came a grunt in the dark. 

Heart pounding her chest, Emma flicked on the light. Harry was sitting at the table. He was wearing a larg tan trenchcoat, one arm hanging emptily. A black hat was perched at what he clearly thought was a rakish angle over one eye. 

“But, naturally, you knew that already, didn’t you?” she said. “Where were you?”

“Mezzanine,” said Harry shortly.

“I thought I felt your presence,” she said. “Of course, I thought you were a ghost.”

“I’d have better places to haunt than my own funeral.”

“And yet,” she said, exhaling softly. “Tea?”

“Scotch.”

She filled up the kettle anyway, and set it on the hob to boil. “Did they pour one out around the round table for you? I imagine they did.”

“Probably,” said Harry woodenly.

He spoke as if the act pained him, and perhaps it did. Under the harsh light of the kitchen, he looked unnaturally shrunken and fragile. But that didn’t stop her from saying what needed to be said. 

“I told you after Rome not to pull this shit, Harry. I told you,” Emma snapped, pulling open a cabinet, and taking down a bottle of scotch. She slammed two glasses down on the table and filled both to the brim. “When were you going to say something? Never, I suppose?”

Harry wordlessly pushed the glasses in her direction. 

She glared at him. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You think if you get me drunk, you won’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s worked before.”

“Should you even be drinking?”

“It helps the Vicodin go down smoother,” said Harry, a little snide. 

“What happened?” Emma asked.

“Long story,” said Harry.

“You owe me an explanation.”

“I said it was long, I didn’t say I wouldn’t tell it to you,” said Harry, looking briefly annoyed. 

He still hadn’t removed his hat, and Emma was beginning to be sickeningly curious about what was under there. 

“I suppose I can attribute my survival entirely to Merlin’s genius. Like his namesake, he managed to pull off the impossible. The glasses protected me as best they could, but the bullet fragments damaged my shoulder,” he recited tonelessly. He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “Valentine detested the sight of blood, and I suppose no one wanted to check to be certain I was dead. I had no identification, and the police wanted to hold me for murder. Apparently, it was very suspicious that I had lived whilst the others had died. I spent two weeks handcuffed to a bed before I regained enough of my strength to make the journey home.”

“I can’t believe they let you out of hospital,” she said.

“I liberated myself,” said Harry, with a touch of asperity. 

“Of course you did,” said Emma. “There’ll be nerve damage, I expect.”

Harry did not glance at his useless arm. “Most likely.”

“And your eye?”

Stiffly, he said, “I’ll lose it.”

They drank in silence. 

The kettle whistled shrilly.

“You’ll have to tell Merlin and the others,” Emma said, switching the cooker off. 

“I thought I’d stay dead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yes, I’ll melt off into the shadows. Head to Bermuda and sell melons, I suppose.”

“If you were truly intending on disappearing, you wouldn’t have come to see me.”

“I had to say good-bye. They don’t allow melon vendors to leave the island,” said Harry mournfully.

“I think you’ve had enough scotch,” said Emma, taking his glass away. 

“You were always such a prefect,” he muttered. 

Emma ignored this. “If you don’t tell them, I shall. They were miserable, Harry.”

“I am certain they will manage to go on without me,” he said. “They have filled my position, after all.”

“You can’t begrudge the accession of your protégé.”

“I don’t,” said Harry, looking affronted. “I am merely noting that there is no place for me at Kingsmen any longer.”

“They’ll offer you Arthur,” said Emma. 

“I don’t bloody want it,” said Harry, looking angrier than she had ever seen him. “And if you should happen to spill the beans to Merlin, you tell him that.”

“All right, then,” she said, a little alarmed. 

Harry reached for the bottle again, but she slapped his hand away. 

“You haven’t asked to see my face,” he said.

“Harry,” Emma began, but he spoke over her in a rolling, almost manic way.

“Yes, the damage is quite extensive, but I was assured by a very chipper young medic that they have wonderful reconstructive surgeons nowadays. Of course, they won’t be able to restore me to my previous good looks, but they will be able to move me along from appearing like Quasimodo’s twin.” He made a quick, pained grimace, and didn’t meet her eye. “I am sorry, Emma.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

“Hm,” said Harry briefly, but didn’t say anything else. He looked as though the entire rush of words had spent him completely.

“The guest bedroom’s empty,” said Emma finally. “You’re welcome to stay for as long as you’d like.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Harry vaguely. He stood up. “I think I’ll sleep now.”

“Good night, Harry,” said Emma, but he was already halfway down the corridor and didn’t appear to hear her. 

She sat at the table, her hands knotted together, for a long time.


	2. Two

Emma woke early the next morning. She made tea and took it by the window, watching the busy thoroughfare beneath. This was her favourite view from the flat, a large factor in her decision to purchase it in the first place. But she had no appetite for it now.

She set the cup aside and walked quietly down the hallway, to the plain white door of the guest room. She half expected Harry to be gone, but when she turned the door knob ever so gently, she was relieved to see Harry’s form underneath the duvet. She could hear him breathing the slow even rhythm of the heavily drugged. She hadn’t imagined their conversation after all.

She hovered in the doorway, unsure of her next move. Was there something she was supposed to do, with a wound like that? He had just gotten out of hospital—or more accurately, escaped police custody. But she couldn’t imagine pressing her fingers to his forehead to check for a fever, or wake him up to dose him with more medicine. When they had gotten sick as children, he had seemed outraged by the very idea that anything could incapacitate him for very long.

She knew Harry, she had never known a day that she hadn’t been either encouraging him or egging him on. They had been close as children, were still now, the type of siblings who preferred one another to the exclusion of outsiders. She had been the swot, the goody-goody—Harry had, even then, an edge underneath the dry charisma. She welcomed the roving company of Harry, who was keen to share stories when he was in the mood to entertain. And when he wasn’t, at least he brooded quietly and politely.

She wasn’t a particularly nurturing person by personality but there was nothing about Harry that made you want to coddle him. He was reassuring that way—his mere presence assured you that the adult had arrived and everything would be just fine. It wasn’t that he was particularly commanding either. He simply got it in his head that he knew what to do and expected everyone else to follow suit. It was what made him such a marvellous field agent—you wanted to follow that confidence. Emma was accustomed to Harry being, if not in charge, at least dictating his ideas of how things ought to be. If she was the brains, Harry was the leader. They had their roles set as children, and it was damned hard to break out of them.

But he had seemed…off, last night. Shaken. It unnerved her, and Emma did not like feeling that way, preferred her usual brand of control. To reassure herself, she lingered in the doorway for a few minutes longer, just listening to the sound that told her that Harry was still there.

 

Harry opened his eyes as soon as the door closed. He heard the sounds of Emma’s footsteps retreating down the corridor to the kitchen, and turned on his back to face the ceiling.

It had been a hard night, an uncomfortable one. The deep throbbing of his face had not ceased, but he was trying to reduce his dependency on the medication. He was accustomed to sleeping on the right, but the injuries had made that nigh impossible. So he had tried as best he could, waking himself every time he unconsciously jiggled his arm and the pain flared.

He could tell the sun was high in the sky by the patterns the curtains made on the photographs on the wall. The room was ostensibly for guests but because he was usually Emma’s only one, she had decorated in a way that was tailored to his tastes. This mainly occurred by purchasing the fluffiest duvet on market (Harry took his comforts when he could) and plastering the walls with pictures of his other favourite person in the world: his niece Sarah.

There were photographs of Sarah as a red-faced squalling baby, of her grinning at the camera with a starfish cradled in her hands. His own personal favourite had been taken during a bank holiday trip to the shore in which Sarah was gleefully piling white sand onto his back.

Emma’s daughter lived part time with her ex-husband, Jack. Emma had her late in her fecundity, which was what happened when a previously happily childless couple collectively came down with baby fever. As a result, she was negotiating the trials of pre-teenagehood whilst most of her peers were enjoying adult children and empty nests.  
Sarah was his only niece and most likely his only opportunity to act as a father-like figure. She was a precocious twelve year old who was very clever and very dear to his heart. Harry was less fond of Sarah’s father. He was a poncy git whose only accomplishment in life was providing the genetic code necessary for Sarah’s existence. And, all right, preventing a teenaged tweaker from knifing up his mother—poncy git being a DI with the Metropolitan Police. The enmity was entirely mutual, although not a grievance had ever been aired to the other party.

Harry had once suggested to Emma that Jack felt threatened by him. Emma had given him a narrow look bordering on condescension and opined it was more likely that neither one of them could fathom that someone else might feel the same way they did about her.

In any case, since the divorce, he had only been forced to endure Jack’s presence during the ritual child exchange that occurred every second Friday and third Wednesday. Emma had retained, for the most part, an easy and surprisingly uncomplicated relationship with her ex. Harry could never hope to understand this, as he had weathered a weeklong campaign of silence when he had lost a book she had given to him. (It was _Mary Bot and the Space Monkeys_. They were nine.)

Harry had also once generously offered to kill Jack and stash the body, but Emma had gotten very unreasonably angry about it.

This unexpected joy of a niece had made Harry pause. He had spent his lifetime as a “confirmed bachelor” which in days past would have been a wink, wink, nod to his “confirmed bachelor” flatmate. And whilst this innuendo was true, being gayer than a May Day parade, the literal interpretation was also correct. He had never found anyone that he liked long enough to want them to stay. There had been some men that he kept carefully compartmentalised from work, warm bodies to come home to.

But for the most part, he lived a life as ascetic as a monk’s, save for his benevolent presence on the edges of Emma’s family. As a doting uncle, he enjoyed goodwill in spades, outings to the London zoo, or the simple pleasures of an ice cream melting down his wrist after a long day in a park.

He had used his work as a pretence for avoiding the romantic world altogether but it was an excuse that hardly held up in the face of Emma’s sudden accession to Mummy of the Year. Yes, he could have a family, however hard it would be. But his days were long and the nights were longer, and filling that hole always seemed so unimportant compared to whatever adventure was planned next.

He had always imagined Sarah taking his place as Galahad when he retired, had harboured rosy Rocky-esque fantasies in which he coached her to triumph over the other candidates. But Emma had given him the flattest look he’d ever seen and ruled, with danger in her voice, “Over my dead body”.

For someone whose parents had very risky jobs, however, Sarah herself displayed a curious antipathy towards violent career paths. She had done a Roman mythology module in school and had come away with a virulent interest in the ancient world. To encourage this, he had given her a beginner’s guide to Latin. She now wanted to be an Oxford don or a famous Latin Scholar. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that the only people who became excited over that thousand year old language was hear and whoever had written the Latin primer.

As he lay underneath the duvet, fighting the urge to reach for a drug capsule, he gazed at that spangled expression on Sarah’s face. For a girl from London, whose nearest body of water was the Thames, the Mediterranean Sea had been a revelation. Yes, think about that, not about…how close he had come to dying.

The same thoughts were creeping back. The ones that had occupied him through his long recuperation in the American hospital ward. He had looked down at the arm, at his face and had been struck with the deepest, most perverse emotion of all: fear. Here, at last, was proof of his mortality, of his ability to be damaged. Of his proof that no matter how clever he was, there was one thing he could not outthink.

It was a little late in his career to be having this realisation. Some men never had it at all. Some never had the opportunity to make it that far. For the longest time, Harry had lived with the slightly smug superior belief that he was alive because he was the best. That was a load of crock. Hadn’t the fallen been just as equally well trained and knowledgeable? Experience was just another way of saying lucky survivor.

If he could no longer have faith, then he could no longer continue. His fear was shameful and unbecoming of a Kingsman. There was only one recourse which was to gallantly (if miserably and pathetically) take himself into early retirement before anyone realised what had happened to him.

He sighed. Self-imposed isolation was a terrible route. But it had to be done.

He gave in and took the paracetamol anyway. He left the comforting confines of the room in favour of the kitchen. Emma was conducting a very strident conversation via telephone with someone who was probably the Antichrist. Or, as she generally referred to him, her ex-husband.

“No, Jack, you can’t just take her to Dublin without consulting me first. Because I have a say if she leaves the country. I don’t care if it’s your parents,” she said, pacing the lino in sharp ninety degree turns. “Sod the plane tickets—don’t be stupid enough to do this next time.”

Harry mimed a gun with his thumb and forefinger.

“I may let you,” said Emma in an undertone. “No, I was talking to Harry. Yes, he’s alive. Well, I’d agree that he’s the world’s biggest wanker if you hadn’t taken the title first.” She looked at the telephone. “He hung up.”

“Prat,” said Harry, mostly out of solidarity and partly out of habit.

For once, Emma didn’t correct or scold him. She merely grimaced, in apparent consternation over her own actions.

“Eurgh. I’ll have to ring later to apologise, I suppose,” she said. “I’m usually able to keep it civil, but taking her out of school for an impromptu holiday is just rude.”

"I think you insulted him into submission.”

Emma smiled faintly. “Yes, I do tend to do that. I rather think it affects his sense of masculinity, actually. At the very least he won’t tell his Metro mates that he gets shouted down by his ex-wife. Not very good for an inspector to look henpecked.”

Harry opened the refrigerator and was unsurprised but still disappointed to see she had nothing but sprouts. Her campaign against the steak and kidney pies of their youth was so thorough that Harry considered it vaguely anti-British. Was it healthy that the national vegetable was the humble potato in all its various forms? No, but on the other hand, there was something wrong about abandoning a roast in gravy in favour of an avocado salad. Avocado. In a land where it rained for months and stomachs had evolved to desire stews because it was the only thing filling enough. They weren’t bloody Californians.

“Have you anything else in besides the hippie granola?” he asked Emma.

She was sitting at the table, virtuously polishing off a bowl of yoghurt. “You ought to watch your LDL levels.”

“Yes, because it’ll be a heart attack that does me in rather than a bullet,” Harry drawled and then stopped short.

The air pulsed so strongly he swore he could feel it thicken in his mouth. Emma stilled, completely frozen and pretending she hadn’t, in an unusual display of terrible nonchalance. It was only a moment but his heart thudded deeper and more rapidly in his chest.

Emma was the first to recover. “I can pop out to the shop,” she offered.

“No, best not to tempt the gods of fate,” murmured Harry, and took the yoghurt container off to the table with a decidedly long-suffering air.

“Harry?”

“Yes?” he asked.

“You know you can tell me anything.”

“Have I caught you on a sentimental day?”

“Just so you know.”

Harry looked at her intently. “I’ve always known that.”

Emma decidedly did not blush.

She drifted into the sitting room. Harry followed her, still peering at the contents of his bowl as though it had deeply wronged him.

Emma once again took up her post by the window, right beside her favourite painting in the house. There were hundreds of reproductions all over England, of course, but she liked having the original. It was special.

The young man in the painting had wind-tousled brown hair, and was staring very intently out into the horizon of the sea. One hand rested on the pale green railing, the other tucked debonairly into his trouser pocket. There was a careless elegance to his slouch, a nonchalant assurance that everything would turn out as expected. The wind had ruffled his dark blue school blazer, hiding most of the emblem, but Emma knew it would say Eton.

Their mother had been an artist of some renown, who even now had retrospective shows appear as part of a series of modern British painters. She was a shy, gentle woman who had been happiest when she was immersed in a new project. Her work had gone on to appear in galleries around the country. They were soft paintings, the edges of reality smoothed over by a delicate, impressionist touch. The type you could hang on the wall, forget about it, but be continuously drawn back by the mysterious allure of the brushstrokes.

She remembered when their mother had produced that particular one. She had always been fond of using her children as inspiration in her work, but had decided to produce something personal, something that would never see the bright harsh light of the British art scene. Their mother had painted Emma in a series of small watercolours, highly romanticised images of a girl staring wide-eyed at the viewer, surprised at her own loveliness.

It was until the summer holidays, however, that she had the opportunity to paint Harry. They were staying at a cottage in Brighton, chafing at the enforced time spent with their parents. Harry at sixteen was long-suffering and arrogant, and successfully dodged her requests for weeks until their mother had cornered him and dragged him down to the pier herself.

There, as he minced and sulked in the hot sun, she worked all day to capture the spirit of her son’s essence. The result was a work that ended up being used in an advert campaign to encourage holidaymakers to visit Brighton, despite their mother’s original intentions. Well, it turned out so nice, she defended herself, and we used the money to pay for your school fees anyway.

“I’ve always hated that painting,” Harry said apropos of nothing. He moved to the armchair by the window and sat down gingerly, looking up at the painted visage of his younger self. “I asked her to destroy it, after. She wouldn’t hear of it, naturally. She looked at me as though I had never wronged her so terribly before. And when it won all those awards, well, I was never going to win that battle.”

“I thought you didn’t care about it at all,” said Emma, surprised.

Harry gave her a thinly satisfied smile. “I am an excellent liar.”

“Well, I like it,” said Emma, touching the frame gently. “I think it captures that summer rather perfectly.”

“That summer?” Harry echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You mean the one where Father never came down from London, and Mum spent half the holiday weeping in her room? And I was alone because you spent your time snogging your way down the shoreline?”

Emma looked at him, annoyed. “That wasn’t what happened.”

“I seem to remember a steady stream of gentleman callers asking me whether “that fit brunette” was my girlfriend or my sister.”

“I mean about Mum and Father.”

“Well, you always did prefer to overlook the unpleasant,” said Harry, in an irritatingly superior tone.

“Father did come down, in the middle of July. And we went on an excursion to Calais.”

“Dead twenty years and you’re still defending him,” muttered Harry.

“And your prodigal son whinging still doesn’t impress me, imagine that?”

“How things change,” said Harry dryly.

Their mother still painted: strangely terrible visages whose broken faces only barely resembled humans. Her pain and confusion radiated from every bold brush stroke. As she slipped slowly into the grip of Alzheimer’s, her self-awareness of the disease’s encroachment showed plainly in moments of terror. It was bleakly frightening work, especially compared to what she had produced at the height of her career. Emma had a few canvasses stashed away in her closet. She always intended to display them, but found them too unnerving for daily viewing.

Harry had the rest of the extensive collection, along with the few paintings not hanging in the National Gallery or in smaller exhibits elsewhere in the country. The entire assortment (appraised for millions of pounds) would go to Sarah in the event of their deaths. It was not a bad inheritance for the daughter of an erstwhile civil servant and a detective inspector.

Harry had tried to subtly hint to Sarah that it would be fine if the painting were to be misplaced. But she simply stared blankly at him, clad in a toga made from her mother’s best linens. Then she returned to organising the Battle of Actium, waged by a large stuffed teddy army. And then Harry decided that there were worse inheritances than paintings of poncy uncles. The throne of England. Alcoholism. Spycraft.

Watching her pretend to pelt each side with catapults saddened Harry in a way he couldn’t articulate to Emma. It was altogether likely that Sarah’s fondness for re-enacting the Punic Wars was actually a latent interest in military theory being expressed rather than Latin academic prowess. After all, her grandfather had spent his long illustrious career at MI-6. Her mother was in the midst of doing the same.

It didn’t matter that Sarah’s surname was O’Hall and her father had given her an equal share of Irish Garda blood, another proud line stretching back decades. Sarah had a tradition to fulfil. It was just what Harts did. They hid their patriotism beneath an aristocratic veneer, but above all, Harts were really for the people. They protected them, after all. They did their duty. The noblisse of service stretched all the way back to Napoleon, which Harry was proud of and Emma was vaguely embarrassed about. It was not cool to be Establishment or a legacy, but the fact remained that a Hart had, in some fashion, shaped the foundation of British intelligence gathering.

Harry was still brooding about this when Emma excused herself to buy more tea from the shop.

 

Emma rang Merlin from her mobile, smoking a secretive fag outside around the corner.

“If you’re ringing to shout at me,” Merlin said tensely. “I’d prefer you to get on with it.”

“I wanted to thank you, actually,” said Emma calmly. “For saving my brother’s life.”

There was a miniscule beat in which Emma thought he might be reacting favourably, but it passed quickly. She heard a rush of profanities so loud that she held the mobile phone away from her ear.

“Where is he?” demanded Merlin, once he had finished. “I’m going to shoot him.”

“That would be redundant.”

Merlin swore again. “When is he coming back in?”

“That’s the other thing—he isn’t.”

 

“He won’t go back,” Emma said, stirring her tea. “He was very firm about that.”

They were sitting in a tea shop that Merlin had chosen, meaning it was very far away from Emma’s usual fare. She had discovered that the scones could double as a weapon, and had prudently slid it across the table. Merlin clearly had no such qualms, because he had bolted down two and was making inroads on a third.

As he chewed, Merlin put one long finger by the side of his temple and stroked it deliberately. “You’re certain that you can’t change his mind?”

“I know I could. I just don’t know if I ought to.”

“We both agree that a service with Harry in it is better than the alternative.”

“For the good of Britain, perhaps.”

“And what other cost-benefit analyses were you thinking of?”

“This work takes a toll; you know that as well as I do.”

“We’ve both made sacrifices.”

“Yes, well.” Emma bit her lip. “Forgive me if I’d rather not sacrifice my brother for the greater good.”

“That’s rather melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“You didn’t see him.”

Merlin sniffed. “You worry too much, Emma.”

“Two months ago he was in a coma,” said Emma flatly. “I think I’m worrying at precisely the right level.”

She eyed Merlin with a gimlet stare. Merlin, under the guise of buttering yet another scone, looked away.

“So you’ve decided to ignore our little personnel problem?” he asked.

“It’s hardly my problem at all, is it? Considering it’s your service and not mine.”

“Right, I’m sure your boss is having paroxysms of delight watching us,” said Merlin sourly. “And I bet he’ll be especially delighted to know how well you’ve looked out for us.”

“George believes in interservice cooperation, as do I,” said Emma, serene.

Merlin stuffed half of his scone in his mouth, possibly to prevent himself from saying something foul.

“You know, maybe you ought not to murder your director, next time,” said Emma.

“That was not at all my doing. It was that confounded Galahad.”

Emma looked briefly confused before her face smoothed out. “Ah. You mean Mr. Unwin.”

“That is giving him a dignity that boy hardly possesses.”

“I was under the impression that you enjoyed him thoroughly.”

“In very small doses and under crisis conditions.” Merlin sighed a little. “No, he’s a good lad, or he will be, once he’s trained up a bit. Gotten more experience under his belt. Harry’s immeasurably fond of him.”

He gave her a look to show her what he thought of Harry’s tastes.

“Harry does love his little projects,” Emma replied.

“You should find him another one—keep him busy,” advised Merlin.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Emma drained her cup. “I’ve got to run, I’m afraid. Do try to keep this secret to yourself, won’t you?”

“I’ll endeavour to.”


End file.
